Reservoir

A lone red leaf holds the bountiful promise of spring.

As the days grow shorter and verdant green fades to yellow, orange, red, and brown, the wispy veil between life and death reveals its transparency.

There is celebration in nature’s great letting go. Trees bloom extravagant tapestries of color, and tourists flock to witness the painted forests and hear the delicate crunch of leaves on city streets.

Meanwhile, a plump squirrel scavenges leaves to build a nest for the winter; a red-headed woodpecker pokes holes in an urban oak tree; expressions of life continue to hum along on their perennial quest for a full belly and a warm bed.

Yet long before the season changes and frigid cold gnaws at our bones, long before we see the first flick of amber on a maple tree’s leaves, the slow march toward winter has already been long underway. It is a process without beginning or end, a cyclical turning that moves and pulls our cells on a scale that’s grander than imagination can fathom.

Perched on asphalt, surrounded by decaying organic matter, a lone red leaf calls me to a deep reservoir of awe.